Lockhart

"We can't print that!" Barnabas Cuffe exclaimed, shoving the article back toward her. "You've gotta rewrite it."

Rita Skeeter frowned, picking up the parchment and clenching it tightly in her hand. She'd finished the write up minutes ago—some of the ink hadn't even completely dried. "You are kidding me, right?" she said, her tone low and angry. "This isn't even exaggerated!" She shook the article in his face. "Not enough bullshit for you, or something?"

Barnabas snatched the article back, ripping the corner in the process. He straightened it out, and read aloud:

QUIRRELL ADMITS TO WORKING WITH HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED

"Okay, I admit that's a bit long," Rita said rolling her eyes. "But we can change that to THE DARK LORD or something." Barnabas glared at her and continued:

We can all sleep well tonight with Quirinus Quirrell safely behind bars—or can we? —writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Earlier today Quirrell was sentenced to life in Azkaban but in his final testimony the ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor admitted to working with none other than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Even though I was unsuccessful, the Dark Lord will rise again," Quirrell told the silent Wizengamot.

Barnabas paused and looked up at her. "We cannot print this!"

"I'm literally quoting him, word for word!" Rita snapped back, gesturing toward the article for emphasis. "For once," she added and Barnabas heaved a loud sigh before continuing.

But will the ministry be able to protect us from this possibility? Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was in attendance and interrupted the proceedings in order to contest Quirrell's claim.

"This is preposterous!" Fudge said. "This testimony is nothing but lies to cover the depth of his own greed."

In a rare display of power, Head of Magical Law Enforcement Madam Amelia Bones informed Fudge that if he couldn't keep his personal bias to himself, she would remove him from the courtroom. In fact, Fudge was apparently so terrified by the idea of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning that he reportedly approached the witness, Merlin Evans, in order to persuade him that his memory had been the conjuration of his troubled mind—

"—Really Rita," Barnabas said, shaking his head. "Do you wanna get me fired?" "Do you wanna get fired? The min' Fudge reads this article both of us will ne'er work in journalism again."

Rita clicked her tongue, leaning on his desk. "Clearly we're not working in journalism now if the ministry can dictate what we do and do not publish!" she hissed.

"Don't lie to yourself!" Barnabas roared back, getting to his feet. As he continued, his cockney accent grew heavier and heavier until she could barely understand him. "The reason you took this story was because of them politics—what was it?—Andy couldn't handle it!" He slammed the article down on the table, breathing heavily. "Now, you're gonna rewrite this, and leave Fudge and him outta it!"

"And what?" Rita said. "Bore my readers? They'll read the first paragraph—go, "oh good, we knew that was going to happen" and toss it. You wanted a hell-of-a story, and I've given you one! It just doesn't mesh with their political agenda!"

"Rita, I'm not doing this with you again. Focus on that damn kid, make the whole article about him, hell write that interview from a few weeks ago—I don't care. And if you won't I'll give it to Andy."

"Andy wasn't even there!"

"Then it'll be easy for him to keep that shit outta it, won't it?" Barnabas huffed and sat back down in his chair, pushing the crumpled and slightly ripped piece of paper back toward her. "Look—you're right. It's a hell of a story, but Fudge's worried about causing a panic. Last time when you brought him up Fudge stormed in 'ere, trying to get me to pull the story—but o'course we'd already published. This time he's watching us."

His voice had lost its anger, replaced instead with the weary drone of a man who'd had this argument before, and even disagreed with the words forcing their way out of his mouth but couldn't change it. Rita rarely had issues like this. Normally the ministry loved sensationalized stories about meaningless gossip—no doubt to distract the public from the more important issues, like this one.

"There's nothing I can do, and unless you wan' ta kiss your career goodbye, you'll rewrite that article. And quick too—we're supposed to send out the Night Edition in a few hours." He shook his head. "Or I could, if you don't think you can stomach it."

"I got it," Rita said through gritted teeth. She grabbed her draft and left, slamming the door behind her.

So much for the story of a century, instead she's saddled with bullshit politics and terrified editors. She knew she ought to be used to it by now, but when they wanted to downplay a story rather than embellish it she grew frustrated. Sometimes she wondered why she hadn't gone to the Quibbler, or one of those other magazines that could spout literal lunacy and get away with it—and then she remembered. She wanted fame, she wanted readers, and the Daily Prophet was the only place where she could find plenty of both. It was only when she was alone she admitted that sometimes it'd be nice to tell the truth.

Only A Boy

QUIRRELL: LYING TO COVER UP HIS OWN GREED?
By Rita Skeeter

Hogwarts is once again safe for your children, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Earlier today the Wizengamot sentenced the ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Quirinus Quirrell to life in Azkaban Prison.

"It is always a pleasure to see justice in action," said Lucius Malfoy, Chairman of Hogwarts Board of Governors. "And it's really all thanks to young Merlin."

Merlin Evans, age eleven, can now sleep easy knowing the man who attacked him at the end of last term has been incarcerated—or can he? Evans has been the subject of much speculation ever since Quirrell's arrest, after all how often does a first year duel his professor and win? But new evidence suggests that the young wizard is more traumatized than he lets on.

Although Evans maintained his cool during the opening remarks by Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Amelia Bones, Evans froze when he came face-to-face with Quirrell once again. In fact, Evans departed from the courtroom early, in order to escape Quirrell's sinister stare and the horrific memories no doubt summoned by being placed in the same room with his attacker.

"I question Dumbledore's decision to allow Merlin to attend the sentencing," Malfoy said after the proceedings. "It was unnecessary and Merlin didn't need to be subject to both Quirrell and the dementors."

Evans also revealed in an exclusive interview that he did not walk away from his encounter with Quirrell unscarred. "I have a long scar right here," he said pointing along his left side, just above his hip. "Where the knight chess piece stabbed me."

But this begs the question—did Merlin really see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

Memories have always been considered unreliable in the court of law, and one St. Mungo's medi-wizard explained to The Prophet how trauma could easily warp details. "It's the reason they can't be used without evidence to back it up—they just can't be substantiated."

The Minister of Magic argues that this is merely a madman's attempt to shift the blame off of himself.

"This testimony is nothing but lies to cover the depth of his own greed," Fudge said. "He's just trying to cause a panic, and there is no concrete evidence to suggest that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was involved."

Quirrell himself was unavailable for comment, but displayed alarming behavior during his hearing. Near the end of his testimony he started rambling about ghosts and mastering death. And many Wizengamot members expressed their anxiety in regards to how the man looked at Merlin.

"Cold," said one Wizengamot member after the hearing. "Never seen an expression like it—he'll fit right at home in Azkaban."

Only time will tell whether or not Evans will ever recover from his encounter with the defamed professor.

Only A Boy

Something fuzzy was going up his nose.

The realization hit a minute later, and Merlin's eyes flew open to see a mound of black fur sitting on his face. Although he was grateful it wasn't a caterpillar—which his sleeping mind had suggested—it didn't really improve the situation. He gently pushed Khoshekh to the side, and the sleeping kneazle yawned widely before flipping onto her back and continuing her snooze on his bed.

Merlin wanted to follow her example. He felt heavy, sluggish, as though he had woken hours before his mind wanted to be awake. But the sunshine streaming through his window implied it was well into the morning—perhaps even afternoon. And now that he was awake, the noise would have made going back to sleep impossible. Diagon Alley sounded alive with patrons, as did the ice cream parlor beneath him. Merlin groaned and rolled onto his side, staring at Khoshekh's chest rise and fall. He could feel it starting up again—a slight prickling at his temple, an ache behind his ears.

Ever since Quirrell had been sentenced a week ago, Merlin had been plagued by a pervasive headache. It'd made falling asleep hard, and waking up at a decent hour even harder. Florean thought it was just one of those annoying summer colds, the kind that lingers, dishing out a steady stream of body aches but never evolving into the real thing. Personally, Merlin thought he might still be dealing with the dementor aftermath. Either way, all he could do was wait for it to blow over.

Resigning himself to the day, Merlin pushed off his covers—careful not to disturb the kneazle—and eased himself out of bed. He ran his hands through his hair, hating the fog settling behind his eyes. This thing, whatever it was, had pretty much destroyed his sleep schedule. After years of waking up early, sleeping in felt like a huge waste of time. Or at least, sleeping in to this extent did.

Anyway.

After splashing some cold water on his face, he shuffled off to the kitchen—where he could hear Florean and Silas arguing with the painting about lunch. From what Merlin gathered, Boris thought cheese and ham sandwiches were a waste of their culinary talents. He smiled, and entered the kitchen.

"Well, looks who's finally up." Florean beamed up at him, pausing from cutting cheese and ham. Silas was sitting on a stool next to him, spreading mayo and mustard on slices of bread. "Feeling better, kiddo?"

Merlin yawned, nodding. "What time is it?"

"Lunchtime." Silas gave a lopsided grin. "Obviously," he added raising an eyebrow.

Merlin snorted. "I think I'm rubbing off on you."

Silas looked delighted. Florean consulted his fob watch for a moment and said, "It's almost twelve-thirty." He gestured towards the sandwiches. "Hungry?"

"Starved." Merlin pulled up another stool next to Silas and started assembling the sandwiches. Boris huffed loudly behind them, but didn't say anything else while they worked. Merlin saw the Daily Prophet sitting on the edge of the counter, last week's Night Edition poking out from beneath today's paper.

Rita Skeeter's article had frustrated him. There'd been too much about him and nothing about Lord Voldemort. In fact she had tried to discredit Merlin's memories, and make Voldemort a non-issue entirely. Hadn't she said that Voldemort was big news? He'd expected her to write about Quirrell's testimony. She wouldn't even have had to exaggerate! Quirrell had made it perfectly clear whom he'd been working with. But, instead she'd made Merlin sound traumatized and had swept the whole thing under the rug. Boring in comparison to an exclusive about The Dark Lord.

At least she hadn't lingered on his reaction to the dementors, which was a miracle in itself.

"Draco will be here in about half-an-hour," Florean said, shooting Merlin a glance while he started putting away food.

Merlin started. "What?"

Silas looked at him too. "School supplies?" he prompted, raising his eyebrow.

Merlin groaned and rubbed his temples, willing his mind to work properly. After Lucius had invited Merlin to shop with Draco he'd even received a formal letter. How had he forgotten? He grabbed one of the finished ham and cheese sandwiches and started eating. "And I forgot to run to Gringotts," he grumbled in between bites.

Silas grabbed a sandwich too. "Why do you need to go to Gringotts?"

"Oh, it's this orphan funding thing. The ministry will cover the cost of my school supplies."

Silas frowned. "But Florean—"

"As I haven't officially adopted you," Florean cut in smoothly, placing a glass of orange juice before each of them. "The ministry will support your education costs. And there's no shame in accepting a bit of help."

Neither Merlin nor Silas wanted to broach the topic of adoption just yet. Merlin swallowed thickly and reached for his orange juice so he wouldn't be able to reply. He knew they would have to talk about it someday—how long were they staying with Florean anyway? Shaking his head, Merlin emptied his glass.

"Right, I'll need to run to Gringotts then. Entertain Draco for me if he arrives before I get back, will you?" he asked as he stood up.

"Sure," Florean said. He paused a moment, watching Merlin stretch. "You're okay going alone?"

"Yeah, goblins don't bother me." He smiled.

"I see. Oh! Hang on you need your funding card," Florean said, stepping out of the room for a moment. Merlin heard him say from down the hall, "Where did I—ah, there we go." Florean reappeared a moment later, holding the silver card in his hands. "Wouldn't want to forget that."

Merlin nodded, accepting it. "Yeah, probably not."

"Just remember to give it back when you return."

"Bet Snape told you to hold onto it," Merlin said smirking as he pocketed the card.

Florean laughed, "Don't think there's a point denying that."

Merlin took a moment to ruffle Silas' hair on his way out, chuckling at the indignant, "Hey!" behind him.

It was warm outside. Bright sunshine bathed Diagon Alley, bleaching the colors, and hurting his eyes. The street was packed with shoppers, parents hunting for those back-to-school deals and students looking for next year's supplies. Merlin thought he recognized some of the faces he passed—maybe he had History of Magic with that girl—but no one stopped him as he headed for Gringotts Bank.

Crooked as ever, the way the marble pillars caught the light temporarily blinded him. Which made the interior look darker than normal. Merlin waited for his eyes to adjust back to normal lighting, and looked around. The bank was packed. Goblins bustled about, weighing and exchanging coins. They at least seemed unbothered by the storm of people, even excited by it. Their organic magic engulfed the room, electric and tangible. But even though Merlin found the magic oddly calming, it was with a grimace that he stepped into the queue.

At this rate it'd take him an hour to get his funding.

"Ah, Forger. Welcome back."

Or not.

Merlin turned around to see a familiar goblin standing next to him. It took him a moment to place the name. "Dirknot," Merlin replied and he inclined his head politely. The goblin mimicked the gesture.

"What can I do for you, Forger?"

Merlin glanced at his place last in line before turning back to goblin. He'd almost forgotten what it was like being treated as Merlin—perks included. Like the Weasley twins, the goblins knew who he was. "I need to withdraw my annual school allowance," and he presented his ministry orphan-funding card to Dirknot.

The goblin took it and nodded. "This way, please," and he led Merlin over to one of the desks. The goblin there, younger with a distinct brown hue to its skin, accepted the card from Dirknot and left through one of the doorways without a word.

"Markarth will return with your allowance shortly," Dirknot said turning back to him.

Merlin nodded. "Thank you."

Dirknot inclined his head again and excused himself to help another patron. It was probably a good thing he'd decided to come alone after all; Merlin mused as he fiddled his fingers, waiting for Markarth to return. He could only imagine what Florean would say if he'd witnessed this. Or Draco. In fact, Draco might be worse—Florean was blessedly in the dark about the troll. He looked up to see Markarth returning, a back of gold in their hand.

"Your student allowance," they said in a high squeaky voice. Markarth gave Merlin a fond look. "And congratulations on the outcome of your court case."

Merlin accepted the money. "Thanks," he said smiling.

"Of course, were Quirrell tried in our courts, we would have treated his actions more seriously," they continued, frowning now. "Claiming alliance with the Dark Lord is serious to us."

Markarth must have read Rita Skeeter's article. "It'll be serious for everyone soon enough," Merlin said, shaking his head. And not in a good way, if the ministry kept ignoring the threat. Markarth appeared to agree, for they inclined their head.

"Have a pleasant term, Forger."

Merlin bowed his head as well, and left. Dirknot's promise rang in his ears, and it was comforting to know that not everyone disregarded the possibility of Voldemort's return. Of course, the fact that Merlin basically had an army at his command was comforting too.

He dashed back to Florean's only to find that Draco had indeed beaten him there. The blond was waiting outside, leaning against the wall of the ice cream parlor and chatting with Silas. He pushed off when he saw Merlin.

"Finally," Draco called, folding his arms. "Took you long enough."

"Oh, don't pretend you've been waiting long," Merlin quipped back rolling his eyes. He didn't see Lucius or Narcissa anywhere in the vicinity. "Parents ditch you then?"

Draco shrugged. "I'm supposed to meet them later at Flourish and Blots."

"Sounds good."

Draco turned to Silas, "You're joining us, aren't you?"

Silas glanced at Merlin before looking back at Draco. "Are you inviting me?" he asked, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Cause it's no trouble, I've got stuff—" he gestured vaguely behind him.

"Not anymore," Draco said, sneering now. "I need some civilized conversation and Merlin knows I can't get it from this guy."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Right, because Quidditch dominated conversations are so civilized."

Silas laughed. "Don't be so melodramatic. Hang on, let me tell Florean I'm going with you." He disappeared back into the ice cream shop.

Maybe Silas knew that there were some subjects they would avoid in his presence. It didn't have to do with him personally, but the moment Silas disappeared the mood changed. The smiles didn't quite fade, but neither did they linger. Instead a chill passed through the air, a touch of seriousness that ought to have belonged to a conversation between adults, rather than children.

Draco picked off a piece of lint from his cloak. "By the way," he said as he tried to flick it off his finger, "congratulations on the case. My father said it was a unanimous vote."

"Yeah, it was." He paused, chewing his tongue. He had a feeling he'd be hearing those words all day. "Skeeter is trying to cover up Voldemort though."

Draco flinched at the name. "I noticed that," he said his lip curling, and Merlin suspected he had also noticed the way Rita had portrayed Merlin. "Although it's probably the ministry doing it—father said Fudge has been acting nervous ever since Quirrell was arrested." He sighed and shook his head. "He can't seem to accept that, well, he might return."

"Oh, there's no seems about it. He definitely can't accept it."

Draco paused a moment, cocking his head. Then he broke into a smirk, "Was it just me or did the phrase 'Nay it is, I know not seems' pop into your head?"

"I—what?"

"Hamlet?"

"Should I know who that is?" Merlin asked slowly.

He watched as Draco mouthed his words, squinting at Merlin as though he was unsure whether or not Merlin was just pulling his leg. But as the seconds passed, Draco appeared to realize that Merlin was not in fact joking, and he took a step back, his hands rising to run absently through his hair—which turned to pulling his hair as though trying to pull this unsettling detail out of his mind. "Not know—" he repeated aloud, shaking his head. "I can't believe this."

Silas returned before Merlin could reply. "I told him we'll be at the bookstore in an hour or so if he—"

"Hey," Draco cut across, turning to him. "You know who Shakespeare is, right?"

Silas stared at him. "Yeah…"

Draco turned slowly back to Merlin, squinting again. "I can't—you educate him," and he jabbed his finger in Merlin's direction, sounding truly distressed that Merlin wasn't familiar with now two rather odd names. Draco shook his head, and headed off up the street. Silas turned to Merlin, raising an eyebrow and adopted a quizzical expression.

"Oh, don't ask," Merlin said, following Draco.

"Do you not know—?"

"Shut up."

"So, what's next?"

Only A Boy

They'd gone to Amanuensis Quills to resupply on parchment and ink. Draco was still inside, just finishing up his purchase. Merlin held his package under his arm, having also decided to buy their new erasure quill. It could erase unwanted ink blotches and words, which seemed like a good investment. They'd already stopped by the apothecary and the shop next door, Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions. Merlin had found he'd grown another three inches during the summer.

"I think that's everything except the books," he replied, perusing his shopping list again. He frowned as he heard Draco rejoin them. "You think this bloke Lockhart will be our next Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?"

"Why?"

"Because they want us to buy every book he's ever published." Merlin showed him the school list.

"Well, not every book—Household Pests isn't here."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Brilliant." He shook his head. "Ever read his stuff?"

Draco shook his head. "He's pretty popular though. I've seen him mentioned in the Prophet several times. Maybe our new teacher just likes his work a lot?"

"I guess we'll find out." Merlin shoved the school list back into his pocket, and started up the street. Next to him, Silas did an odd sort of skip. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing!"

Draco nudged Merlin with his elbow. "Quality Quidditch Supplies is on the way there, Merlin. You know, Quidditch. The most amazing—"

"I'm so sorry I asked," Merlin groaned, covering his ears with his hands and walking faster.

For the next several minutes Merlin didn't even bother trying to change the subject. He knew a fruitless cause when he saw one. And as he couldn't add anything to the conversation anyway, he went silent and listened as Silas and Draco talked animatedly about the different positions and local teams. He didn't understand most of it, but he gathered that Draco considered the Seeker the most important player, whereas Silas actually preferred Chasers. Something about how they actually got to play?

They came around the corner and found Flourish and Blots bursting with patrons. They spilled into the street, loud with excited conversation. Merlin stopped and Silas crashed into him.

"Wha—hey, what's going on?" he asked, peaking around Merlin at the crowd, which upon closer examination appeared to be comprised mainly of middle-aged women.

"I've got no idea." Merlin tried to catch sight of the display window, but there were too many people. "Should we just come back later?"

"Merlin!"

All three of them turned around to find a familiar face running toward them. Hermione had her thick bushy hair pulled back into a ponytail, and stuck out among all the wizard robes in her muggle t-shirt and shorts. She was out of breath when she finally caught up. "I thought I recognized you," she said in between gasps, smiling broadly at them.

"Hermione! Nice timing," Merlin beamed back at her. He nodded toward the shop, "Do you know what's going on?"

Hermione blinked. "No?" she said, raising her eyebrow. She met Silas' eyes and grinned at him too. "Nice to see you again, Silas."

"Yeah!"

"I guess I don't get my own hello?" Draco finally drawled, folding his arms.

Hermione glanced at him, "Oh, I suppose," she said and hit his arm with her elbow. "Hello Draco. Come on, let's go see what's going on," and she led the way into the crowd.

Draco grumbled in reply, and as soon as she wasn't watching furiously rubbed his arm. "She hits a lot harder than you'd think," he shot at Merlin in an undertone as they followed her.

Merlin smirked. "I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, well I saw that look."

"This is just my face."

"Hey, didn't you say all your books were by Lockhart?" Silas asked. They had reached the interior, and both books and patrons surrounded them. It looked like they'd formed a line that wrapped around the entire shop, and out into the street.

"Yeah…" Merlin said turning back to him.

"Well, he's signing copies of his autobiography," and Silas pointed at a large sign that'd been erected, surrounded by a mountain of thick books, all with the same face on the cover. Merlin had never seen a smile so even and so white in his entire life. Ahead, Hermione pointed at the sign as well, before rushing back over to them.

"We can actually meet him!" She said, eyes bright. "I mean, he's practically written the entire booklist."

"Don't worry, Hermione," Draco said sneering at her. "I'm sure he'll sign your textbooks for you."

Hermione went pink. "I don't care about that!" she said quickly, and Draco laughed.

"Sure you don't. Well, let's take a look at him," and he took the lead.

"Do you really think he'll sign my books?" Hermione whispered to Merlin and Silas, her cheeks darkening in color.

Merlin snorted in reply while Silas said, "If you ask him, probably…"

Hermione hummed and Merlin glanced at her. She was looking around at the queue of people and knew he didn't have to tell her that it'd probably be several hours before Lockhart got to her. "C'mon, you can at least see him," he said. "Maybe it's not even worth it."

She glared at him, but didn't reply. They pushed their way through the line—assuring people they weren't cutting—until they found Draco. He was standing off to the side, looking somewhat disgusted by the sight before him. And when Merlin joined him, he saw why.

Lockhart sat at a table surrounded by posters, all depicting his face and all flashing broad smiles with impossibly perfect teeth. Copies of his autobiography "Magical me" towered in a pyramid next to him, assuring that no one came up to him empty-handed. Lockhart himself wore robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes, and a pointed hat that sat at a jaunty angle on his wavy blond hair. He finished signing one book, met the lady's eyes and winked, causing half-a-dozen onlookers to swoon.

Draco turned away. "I cannot watch this. I'm going to go find my books," he muttered to Merlin, cringing while a cameraman danced around them, taking photos that created great plumes of purple smoke with every shot. Draco turned to Hermione, "You should never meet your idols," he sneered into her ear before disappearing back through the crowd.

"Honestly—" Hermione huffed, turning to look after him but she cut off. "Merlin," she said, nudging his shoulder. "Look."

Merlin followed her eyes and saw what he assumed was the entire Weasley family—or most of them, at any rate. Fred and George wore expressions remarkably similar to Draco, and Merlin almost laughed. But they hadn't seen him. Merlin waved to get their attention, standing on his tiptoes to be better seen in the crowd. But this turned out to be a huge mistake, for while he did manage to get Fred and George to look over at him, he also attracted the gaze of Lockhart himself.

He had just finishing signing another book, and looked up to see Merlin waving his arms. He stared. Merlin quickly dropped his hands, but he could see that it was too late. Lockhart's mouth had opened slightly, eyes widening in recognition. And the next moment, Lockhart had leapt to his feet, toppling the stack of books next to him, and shouted across the room, "Well, if it isn't Merlin Evans!"

The crowd of witches all turned to look at him. Merlin felt his face growing hot. He hadn't thought he'd receive this much attention after the court decision. The few congratulatory he'd thus received—yes—but not this. Stunned by the turn of events, he didn't notice Lockhart diving toward him until Lockhart had seized his arm and was dragging him to the front.

"No—I don't—"

The flash from the camera cut him off. The man had taken Merlin's hand and was shaking it in front of everyone. The photographer started clicking away madly, engulfing the Weasleys' in smoke. "Nice big smile, Merlin," Lockhart said, beaming down at him.

Merlin considered pulling a huge frown instead, but didn't get a chance to put it in practice. Lockhart let go of his hand and wrapped his arm around Merlin's shoulders instead, pulling Merlin right up against him. Some sort of flowery perfume filled his nostrils, sickly sweet and overpowering.

"I want to personally congratulate Merlin here for his success against Quirrell," he announced, and there was a storm of clapping. "Going through something like that," he gave a dramatic sigh and squeezed Merlin's shoulder uncomfortably tight. "I can't imagine. Especially at the hands of your professor, someone who was supposed to protect you."

Was this seriously happening?

"Well, don't you worry this year," Lockhart continued, his voice rising in volume. "Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen, this year I will be Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts!"

Merlin had a sinking feeling that this year was going to be no better than the last. As everyone clapped again, he tried to untangle himself from Lockhart's surprising vice-like grip. "I don't know if you've noticed," he said shortly, "but I can handle myself well enough."

He seemed to have startled Lockhart into silence. He stared at Merlin again, before laughing and finally letting go. "Look how brave he is!" he said, and he led another round of applause either not noticing—or not caring—about Merlin's very red face. "Bless."

Merlin wanted to curse him.

"As a sign of my utmost respect, and as an apology for my former peer, I have decided to give Merlin my entire," he turned around for half a second and returned with a stack of books which he dumped into Merlin's arms, "collected works," he continued as Merlin stumbled under the sheer weight—how many blasted books were there— "Free of charge."

As even more applause ensued, Lockhart put his hand on Merlin's shoulder again, inciting the photographer to take another dozen photos. But this time, Lockhart didn't resist when Merlin pushed against his grip, staggering over to Hermione and Silas. Behind him, Lockhart returned to his table and began signing books once more.

"Pick a new celebrity crush," Merlin ground out, face still unbearably hot. "I might have to kill this one."

"I'm sure he meant well," she said, but she shifted uncomfortably.

Yeah, in the same way Uther meant well when he decreed magic illegal, but of course he couldn't say that. Merlin glared at her, biting his tongue. He settled for putting as much distance as possible between him and that—that peacock. He still needed to pick up a copy of the Standard Book of Spells Grade Two, before he could retreat home. He noticed Silas watching him, brows knitted in concern. After a few moments, in which Silas kept shooting him increasingly worried glances, Merlin stopped and turned toward him.

"What?"

Silas fidgeted, "You just look…"

"What?"

"Really annoyed," Silas finished, giving a weak smile. Merlin deflated, his shoulders slumping. He wasn't annoyed with them. Lockhart on the other hand—Merlin white knuckled the books in his hands.

"Do you really have to read all of those?" Silas asked, frowning down at Lockhart's books.

"Pretty much."

"And I thought I had too much reading."

"It's more likely he'll assign select passages from each of them," Hermione said after a moment. "Not that reading all of them is a bad thing." She turned quickly away when Merlin looked at her, busying herself with the shelf in front of her. Somehow Merlin didn't think that Lockhart's books would have much substance, considering the absolute—

"Here," Hermione said handing him a copy of their grade two spell book. "I'll grab my own Lockhart collection on the way to the counter," she added. "I'm pretty sure I saw them over there earlier."

Merlin nodded, and followed her through the crowd in silence. He didn't see Draco anywhere, and wondered whether or not the blond had decided to wait outside for them. Hermione motioned for him to pay first—She had to wait for her parents anyway—and even the shop assistant gave him such an expression of pity that Merlin considered ditching everything and booking it for the exit.

"Blimey, Merlin. I thought you were going to hex him."

He turned to see Fred and George headed toward him, each holding their own collection of Lockhart books. Merlin appraised them for a moment before admitting, "I thought about it."

"Merlin!" Hermione said, aghast. "He's our teacher!"

"Like that'd stop him," George said, chuckling. "He already took out one professor."

That got Merlin to smile. "Good to see you guys again." The Weasley twins always knew how to cheer him up. He took his books off the counter, grimacing at their combined weight. "But as I can barely hear myself think in this place…" he trailed off pointedly.

"Gotcha, we'll be right behind you."

"Hermione?"

She frowned, and stood on her tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd. "I might have to meet you outside as well, I don't—"

"Hey, where did you go?" Came a new voice, and they all turned to see Ron come round the corner. "Mum wants—you!" He'd caught sight of Merlin and stopped dead.

"Me?" Merlin replied with a sneer. "Tell your mum I'll be right over."

Ron glared at him, and his eyes slowly traveled over to Hermione, before finally falling on Silas. "Who're you?" he shot, ignoring Fred when he hit his shoulder.

"Oh, this is Silas," Merlin introduced, stepping aside—which was difficult, since there wasn't that much space to begin with. "My foster brother." Silas offered Ron a small smile, holding up his hand in a polite wave. Merlin planned to drop all his textbooks on Ron's toe if he said anything degrading, but Ron only blinked in surprise.

"You have a foster brother?" he repeated, looking back at Merlin.

"No, I made that up, he's a complete stranger." Merlin rolled his eyes, and behind him Fred and George laughed. "Yes, foster brother. Don't you read the papers?"

"I skim," Ron shrugged. "Dad says that Skeeter woman tells mostly lies anyway."

Merlin took a step back and adopted an expression of mock surprise. "Would you look at that, something intelligent came out of your mouth."

"Oh, don't be too hard on him," George said, slinging his arm across Ron's shoulders. "He's got some Weasley in him yet."

"Piss off," Ron snapped, and he pushed George off him.

Fred sighed, shaking his head. "Such language Ronald," he said adopting the stern tone of his mother. He shrugged and leaned over to Merlin, "He's just upset his rat died," and Merlin noted the way Ron stiffened at once. "It's made him crankier than usual," and Fred raised his voice, "hasn't it, Ronald?"

Ron dropped his books, his ears flaming with color. Half-expecting him to attack Fred, Merlin took a step back, stumbling into Silas. But whether or not Ron actually would have thrown a punch, Merlin never found out for the next moment a loud commotion from the entry way interrupted them. Raised voices floated toward them, and with a start Merlin realized that he knew one of them.

"Lucius?" he said, bewildered, while simultaneously the Weasley children went, "Dad?" They looked at each other, and as a loud crash signaled the collapse of a bookshelf, all of them ran toward the chaos.

Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley were locked in a tangle of flying limbs and falling books. When Ron saw what was going on, he darted forward with a shout of, "Get him Dad!" on his lips, while at the same time a woman that Merlin assumed to be Mrs. Weasley yelled, "No, Arthur, no!" A shop assistant emerged from the crowd, staring at the pile of books with his hands in his hair, crying, "Gentlemen, please!" But neither Malfoy nor Weasley heeded any of the voices, so intent as they were on beating every inch of each other.

Merlin spotted Draco standing a few feet away, staring at the fight in shock. "What happened?" He had to shout to be heard over the racket.

"I don't know!" Draco yelled back. "One minute they're talking about her books—" and he nodded to Ginny Weasley, standing only a few feet away from the brawl and holding a cauldron full of books. "—and the next Weasley tackled him into the bookcase."

"It might be because of those new ministry raids," Fred shouted, joining them. "Dad's got some new legislation passed that'll let him search houses for dark objects—the ministry's gotten nervous ever since Quirrell."

Draco paled at his words, and Merlin was willing to bet that Lucius had more than one dark artifact hidden away in his home.

"What's all this?" Lockhart had emerged from his book signing. The shop assistant turned to him, shaking his head, mouthing wordlessly. No one seemed to want to get in the middle of them, with even Lockhart watching excitedly. Merlin wasn't sure what made him do it—but when he watched Lucius land a right cross he couldn't stand still any longer. He dived forward—casting his books aside.

"Hey!" he shouted, and he grabbed Lucius' arm in an attempt to pull him back. "That's enough!" But Malfoy senior wretched his arm free, nearly sending Merlin to the ground himself. Mr. Weasley had recovered from the blow, getting to his feet to retaliate—

"I said: THAT'S ENOUGH!" and his eyes flashed gold. The books beneath their feet shifted, tripping the two men and dragging them away from each other in a sudden jerk of motion.

The noise died. All the cheering, all the shouting, and the crying replaced with an eerie silence that permeated the shop. It felt awkward, unnatural even. Everyone appeared too stunned to say anything, all eyes traveling over to rest on Merlin. He felt cold dread settle in his stomach, felt it crawl up his throat as an excuse.

He swallowed it down.

Lucius staggered to his feet, wiping blood from a cut on his lip. Merlin had never seen him so disheveled. His normally refined manner had gone, leaving behind a man seething with rage. His blond hair fell loose over his flushed face, and he took a moment to brush it out of his eyes. "Here, take your book," he shot at Ginny, who flinched, snapping toward him. Lucius took a step towards her and shoved something into her cauldron. "It's the best your father can give you."

His words rang in the silent bookshop. And as he straightened his robes he gave Merlin an unfathomable expression, as though he wasn't quite sure what had just happened. The anger radiating off his person began to fade. "Draco!" he called, turning on his heel and Draco took a hurried step away from the Weasley twins. "We're leaving."

Draco caught Merlin's eye as they walked past, mouthing, "I'll send you an owl," before he disappeared from the shop with this father.

"You—you're not allowed to use magic outside of school." Arthur Weasley sat sprawled on the floor, color blossoming across his swelling eye. He sounded numb, and he stared at Merlin with his mouth slightly ajar. Fred and George darted forward to help him to his feet. But as they did, conversation returned. Muted, hushed, whispered exchanges between neighbors. It bothered Merlin just as much as the silence, but Mr. Weasley was still staring at him, his words still hanging unanswered in the air.

Merlin found himself holding his breath.

Lockhart strode forward. "I think we can let it slide this once," he said, flashing one of his dazzling smiles. "After all," and here he laughed, a warm booming sound that eased the atmosphere, "No one else stepped up."

Merlin clenched his fist. "Including you," he glowered, half-spoken, but Lockhart heard him. He laughed again, and shrugged with exaggerated movement.

"You moved just as I was about to," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you handled it beautifully! Didn't he?" and he started clapping. For a moment, he was alone and then others joined him, until nearly everyone in the shop was applauding him. Merlin managed not to blush this time.

His insides still felt cold.

Maybe Silas knew, because he tugged on Merlin's arm. "Come on," he said in his ear, pulling him toward the door. He didn't need telling twice. He felt Lockhart's disappointment, but no one tried to stop him as he and Silas left the shop. Maybe they were scared he'd perform magic again if they did. He felt Silas glance at him, heard him open his mouth to speak only to close it again a second later. Merlin was grateful; he couldn't have spoken if he'd tried.

Why had he acted? Why hadn't anyone else? It felt wrong that he'd been the one to break up the fight when there'd been adults in the vicinity. He knew Malfoy's reputation must've made some people wary of stepping forward, but no spells had been exchanged. And Lockhart was supposed to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. If anything, Merlin would have expected his pompous attitude to drive him to the center of attention—show off his skills, as it were. But instead, Merlin had acted instead. He wanted to scream.

"Merlin—you forgot your books!"

He and Silas stopped, turning around to see Hermione, Fred, and George rushing toward him.

"That was wicked, what you did back there," Fred said with a wink.

"You missed Lockhart telling the photographer off for missing it," George added. He gently handed off a stack of books to Merlin. "Think you might need these."

Merlin felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. "Thanks," he said softly.

"That's a trick you should teach us, you know," Fred said, his eyes bright. "Now, what're we going with?" He smacked his hands together conspiratorially. "Accidental?"

"Sorry, but that was clearly wandless magic," Hermione interrupted, and she caught Merlin's eye. "Right? I only saw it the once…" she trailed off. Right, she'd seen him with the troll. He'd wondered whether she'd noticed that little detail.

He scratched his neck, and threw his head back into the sunlight. He closed his aching eyes. "Yeah." His heart fluttered in his chest with the admission. "Yeah," he repeated, opening his eyes again and looking back at them.

"Isn't that really hard?" Silas said.

"Supposedly," and Hermione folded her arms. "How long have you been able to do it?" Merlin grimaced, and Hermione's eyes widened in realization. "You've always been able to?"

"See, that right there is why I hadn't told anybody." He caught George fidgeting out of the corner of his eye.

Hermione's mouth had fallen open. "Why do you even have a wand then?"

"Right, because no one would find that odd at all." Merlin paused, chewing his tongue. This would be the moment to admit it, to tell them that he technically he didn't even have a wand. But was that wise? Fred and George, sure—they already knew everything—but Hermione? Draco? Would they keep it secret? It wasn't that he didn't trust them, just that he'd kept everything close to the chest for so long that he wasn't even sure he knew how to be open anymore. But he didn't want to lie either.

He mentally flipped a coin.

"Although strictly speaking, I don't." His heart fluttered again.

Even Fred and George looked confused now. "What do you mean?" Silas asked, turning to him as well.

Merlin pulled up his pant leg to reveal his holster and removed his wand. He handed it to Hermione. "Try to cast something."

Disbelieving, Hermione took the wand. She raised her eyebrow, and swished the wand toward one of Merlin's books, "Wingardium Leviosa." Nothing happened. She frowned and performed the spell again.

"Let me try." Fred took the wand, and attempted the same spell, staring when it failed.

"It's not your casting," Merlin said when George reached toward it. "That's literally just a stick." They stared at him. "There's no core in that wand."

"Ollivander gave you a stick?" George said incredulously, while Merlin took the wand and put it back in his holster.

"No," Merlin said smirking now. "I made that."

"You've…never used a real wand?" Hermione had stopped blinking. "I—" she turned away, hiding her face from him. Merlin exchanged looks with Fred and George—who had both already recovered from their surprise with mutual shrugs of understanding.

"Are you okay?" Fred asked her.

"Yeah, just—" she took a deep breath, "re-evaluating my life." She turned back to him, and Merlin searched her face for fear or even panic. He didn't find either, and released a breath that didn't realize he'd been holding. "You do realize how unfair you are."

"What? How so?"

Hermione glared at him. "I work hard for my grades, and here you are—" she gestured vaguely toward him, "—don't even need a wand to do magic. Honestly, are you even real?"

"Don't take it too personally, Hermione," Fred said, patting her on the shoulder. "You're a brilliant witch."

Hermione grumbled, but Merlin saw her eyes light up at the compliment. He laughed. "C'mon, let's go eat ice cream. I think we could all use it."

Only A Boy

For the first time, doubt entered his mind.

Quirinus Quirrell had managed to remain strong during the entirety of the trial, never once second-guessing his loyalty to the Dark Lord. But now, flanked by dementors and escorted to his cell, he couldn't help but consider his life. Even if he hadn't had old memories rising to the surface of his mind, putting into question every decision he'd ever made.

The Dark Lord had come to him like a light in the dark. Velvet words wrapped in bright packaging with his name written across it in fluid glowing script. A beacon in a world plagued by judgment, insecurity, and pain. Quirrell had traveled to Albania for the sole purpose of finding him—though his plan after that had always been vague. Defeating his remains? But faced with the specter, he'd dropped his wand and fallen to his knees.

He hadn't expected him to be so beautiful.

From his whispers, to his presence, to his promise of sheer power—he'd promised Quirrell everything, and Quirrell couldn't have denied him. Even now, as the dementor in front shuddered, sucking in a horrible ragged breath, Quirrell didn't regret it. But trying to steal the stone from Dumbledore? Well, that'd just been stupid. He wondered why the Dark Lord had even thought to suggest it.

And then there was Merlin Evans.

Quirrell hadn't noticed the boy for a long time. But when he did, he wondered how he could ever have ignored him. Merlin felt—different, somehow. His aura possessed a quality that reminded him of that moment—in the forest of Albania. Nowhere near as hypnotic, or desirable. He couldn't even describe why it felt similar—there were no words of comparison—and yet, fighting the boy on the chessboard had summoned a feeling. It tugged on his mind.

Curiosity.

The dementors came to a stop, and he watched as they opened one of the cells. His new home for the rest of his life. Azkaban was cold, damp, and smelled strongly of mold. The rough stone walls kept out the wind, but he could hear it howling in misery against the rocks. The dementor in front of him gestured toward the cell, and not wanting to be touched again by those sickly looking hands, Quirrell entered of his own accord.

The door shut behind him with a deafening clang.

He threw himself down onto the mattress, and stared at the floor. The last inmate appeared to have taken to scratching pictures into the stone with his fingernails. He could see blood ingrained in the lines of a crude image of a woman's face. How long would it be until he was driven to similarly self-destructive behaviors?

"Hey, new guy."

He started, and looked up. The prisoner in the cell across him waved through his bars. His hair was long, matted, though beneath the filth appeared mousy brown. His hazel eyes were sunken, hallowed, but didn't possess the same defeated look Quirrell had noticed in some of the other inmates. His beard was patchy, long at some points, and shorter and others—indicating a young man. His garment hung loosely on his thin frame.

So that's what he had to look forward to, huh?

"What's the news?"

Quirrell blinked. "What?" he hissed, glancing down the hall. Were they allowed to talk to each other?

The guy rolled his eyes. The movement made Quirrell cringe—his eyes were almost too large for his sockets. "The news," he repeated. "In the world. Last prisoner came here six months ago, and it's not like we can subscribe to the prophet."

"Uh—" Quirrell lifted his head. "The Dark Lord is on the move once again."

To his surprise, the guy groaned loudly. "Oh Merlin, another death eater? Please, I don't want to hear another spiel about him rising back to power soon blah, blah, blah. You lot have been saying it for ten years, and I'm sick of it. Hey—are the Weird Sisters still together? It'd be a shame if they stopped producing music."

Quirrell stared at him, open-mouthed. "Who are you?"

"Oh," and the guy smiled—actually smiled, in this godforsaken place. "I'm Byron. Byron Meadowes."